


O Arrow, Shoot True

by Dark_at_Noon



Series: The Heir of The Black Arrow [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Bain is 16 and acts like it, Bard DIY's some allies., Bard creates colonies by mistake, Coping, Dis decides to collect small children, Festivals, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Grief, Infertility, Loss of family connections, Marriage Proposal, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Orc Rights, Panic Attack, Plague, Sigrid is really struggling with her family rn, The Valar, Thorin's made his bed and has to lie in it, Tilda is the Daleish equivalent to a suffragette, Tilda sorts some stuff out, Westeros and Arda are on the same planet, don't y'all worry mama bear got this, no archive warnings at present- will change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_at_Noon/pseuds/Dark_at_Noon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TA 2945: Three years after the Battle of The Five Armies, Bard is now the King of Dale, a title that he never thought he'd hold. He rules a starving people, struggling to return to the life of prosperity that their ancestors once lived while plague and fear ravage the community. The pillars on which his throne is built- Sigrid, Bain and Tilda- have begun to crumble under the weight of responsibilities they never thought they'd have, as all three seek the comfort they once found in one another elsewhere. Under the mountain, Thorin the Monstrous struggles to regain the respect of his people and the adoration of his nephews, while amongst the ancient oaks of Mirkwood the vacuum created by the absence of an old evil allows something far worse than spiders to take root.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein Bain has a sulk and Bard makes some friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely Dale-centric because they're my fave character and I was expecting more Dale/ Bain centric stuff after BoTFA was released. OAST is the first fic in the series- preceeded by "the creepy Alfrid" fic you can find in the series tag. 
> 
> Idk how this will be recieved or what ships will come of this- but tell me what you think! :)

Dale, Bain thought, was a most peculiar place. It was certainly culturally diverse, with people from Rhun to Harad. It had flourished in the last three years, cash injections from Erebor, as they struggled with their guilt and Mirkwood flowing in faster than the river, bringing waves of tradesmen, tools and materials. Dale had grown up around his feet when he wasn't looking, like a spider vine, all twists and turns. But what made Dale so peculiar was her steadfast belief that Bain could not simply be Bain of Laketown, son of Bard the bargeman. He had to be Prince Bain, heir to the kingdom and to his father, the King. There were no more fishing trips, or lazy mornings. No more nights of sitting by a fire in a tiny room that smelt like fish while Sigrid darned and Tilda acted out plays for them. It was as if they had truly died in the dragons flames, and imposters had taken their places. 

 

To put it lightly, Bain despised it. He despised the responsibility and the way he didn't talk right, he despised how his sister spent all her time with the healing Lion of Erebor, and he despised Dale itself. Which was why he was pacing in the ruins of a tiny pleasure garden- who gardens for pleasure while others starve? - After storming out of a meeting with delegates. 

 

Delegates was apparently code for potential wives, in Bard-speak. Bain had been absolutely horrified at the idea. The streams of men and women trickling in from far-flung regions were for him? Bain did not want to marry some simpering lady from Gondor, who had never known pain, or starvation- a lady who would not have even _looked_ at him until the dragon came.

 

Bain knew he was no great knight, no great beauty. His actions during the battle weren’t what made women think of him. No, it was his role in the death of the dragon. The role in which he was used as a bow. It wasn’t the most daring of feats, and of all his actions, it was the human bow. Bain kicked a rock and watched it feather the ground, taking off and vanishing into the scrub that surrounded the whole town still. If one more woman asked him if he shot as straight as his father he might actually have to drown himself in the lake.

 

Bain could hear steady footsteps coming down the corridor that led to the garden. Steady meant that it wasn’t Sigrid, who’d had her leg badly injured in a rock fall while they cleaned up after the battle, or his father, who had cut it when the tower came down and then allowed it to be infected in his after battle haze. Tilda, then. Bain rather thought a firing squad would be preferential to Tilda at this point.  
“Bain. What are you doing?” Tilda had slipped easily into the responsibility of her new role. Her voice echoed this- no longer soft and full of concern, but sharp and undecipherable. For the first time, Bain thought Sigrid’s worried sighs and admonitions might be preferable.  
“Enjoying the gardens, obviously.” Bain kicked at another rock. Why were there so many small rocks up here? Wouldn’t they prevent the grass from growing?

“Is that the new way of saying ‘I’m trying to avoid my whole family and the armies of women hunting me down by kicking finger bones into the bush?” Tilda studied Bain with the air of a fine art collector- she revealed both everything and nothing.  
“Well, maybe but- Hang on, did you say finger bones? Real finger bones?”  
“Yes. Those are real finger bones. From real fingers, which were once attached to a real hand on a real body,” Tilda rolled her eyes. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, I’m avoiding people. Yes, it’s because I don’t want to marry. No, I don’t want you to get involved. Or Da,” Bain paused for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak again. “You’re lucky you’ll never have to go through this. It’s like being a fish on market day. Everything you say and do and think and wear is calculated. If I start dressing in red and brown, every maid in Dale will do the same so we match. If I tell Leif I like the book about the one armed knight and his friend the shield maiden, every woman I know- and many I don’t- will read it just to tell me about how much they enjoyed it. If I help a woman up when she slips a dozen will fall in front of me just so they can say they had the same pleasure. It’s bizarre. I-“

“You’re being a prat, you know that? They’re all being groomed and told to do it! I was talking to Marta- she used to live down in the Weavers Quarter, in Laketown, remember- and she says that if Gertie Tanner doesn’t at least make you smile when she speaks with you her father beats her bloody! You don’t know anything about-“ Bain stopped listening. It was always, always like this now. The solidarity they’d had back in Laketown was gone- If Bain had complained about such things at home Tilda would have laughed and told him a long winded story  about how dreadful Marta was and how she mooned over Bain when he wasn’t looking. And Sigrid would have thinned her lips and tutted, telling them they really oughtn’t think it was alright to mock people.

 

Sometimes Bain wished the dragon had actually eaten him when it said it would. At least then his thread would have been ripped out of the family tapestry, a small hole. Instead the tapestry was battered and torn and all the names were spelt wrong.  Dale was a peculiar place, and he hated it.

 

*  *  *

The council was not so terribly dull today. The men who had elected to remain in Laketown came to speak their grievences about the state of the re-build, the men from the settlements around the lake came to ask for trade, the elves and dwarves came with their treaties and the men from across the country flaunted their daughters like jewels, hoping madly that Bain or Bard had some form of hidden magpie traits. A boatload of refugees from some battered island stood silently in the docks, praying that Bard would be benevolent enough to grant them safety.

 

After listening to some dwarf from the Iron Hills drone on and on about the love between their people and the sacrifices on the battle field that would never be forgotten- Bard always thought that the dwarves made their speeches far more flamboyant when the elves were visiting- and pretending to focus when an elf from Lothlorien gave a speech about how fantastic it was that Dale was being returned  to its former glory and how they hoped the trade would come from Dale to Lothlorien, Bard turned his attention to the refugees in the docks. He swallowed and tried to ignore the desperation on their faces before he spoke.  
“Welcome, friends,” he began, desperately wishing Tilda or Bain had come, “to the kingdom of Dale. What brings you to such foreign shores?”

There was a great deal of jostling before a leader emerged from the group. He was perhaps thirty in age, but looked as though he had long carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was dark skinned, but fair of hair and eye. “Hail Bard, King of Dale. I am Denys, former Lord of Redfyrd in the Far East, over the hills and deserts of the Haradrim. I come to beg for shelter, or aid. Once our cities were sisters, and sons were exchanged between the two enough to make our people as close as kin. My people and I have been ousted by my Uncle, who has taken the crown and my mother to wife, and we have been sorely bested in every battle. We may be large in number, but we are all craftsmen, in some shape or form.” The man- Denys- waved his hand at his band of refugees. Many of them were women and children, and among them stood wisened elderly and the heavily pregnant.

Bard stood up very slowly. “I am afraid that I cannot offer you refuge,” The crowd of refugees- and many of the people gathered around for the council meeting- began to shout about injustices- were the people of Dale not refugees once? Bard waited until the people were quiet once more, and then continued. “As my people are struggling as it is. We have been struck with wave after wave of the plague, and we have been low on food supplies since we settled here. I wish that I could offer you something to aid you but-“

“Should we starve then? Should we smother our children before the cold gets to them?” One of the refugees began to shout, and then they all did. The noise was deafening, and Bard resisted the urge to leave.

“However,” He said, both shouting and not, in the same voice he had used to scold his children once, before the days ran together and they grew too old or too cold to scold. The room was silent. “There is a patch of land, up in what was once a dell- closer to Erebor than us- I was planning on sending men to farm and till it when our population rose again- and the people were not so ill and weak. It has ruins on it- many years ago it was a town itself- if you should need land, I will give you that.”

Denys looked like he wanted to kiss Bard- joy made him look at least ten years younger. “Land of our own?” Denys said slowly. “Land for us to live on and farm- and make a living?”

“Yes. As all patron towns do, there will be a small tithe to Dale- for protection- and trade, obviously. We need food, but we do not have the population to grow it- grown men and women were far more susceptible to the plague than their children- so I suppose this is a logical solution to our problems. Percy, if you would supply rooms for these people- we will discuss this again on the morrow.” With that final statement, Bard stood and left the room. His leg ached, and his torso felt so much worse. He wanted to bathe in cool water and see his children, and he wanted to rest.

A breeze carried five words from one of the refugees, who were all shouting again: “Arrowtown! We’ll call it Arrowtown!”

 

As Bard limped gracelessly up the stairs, an arm curving around his chest, he let himself smile.


	2. In which Sigrid really cannot deal with her life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigrid arrives. Thorin has a guilty conscience and tries to fix things. Sigrid is 100% up to bone Fili, who is still healing from his BOTFA wounds. Dain's a tool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for the response!! pleased to know y'all liked it/ thought it was mildly decent. hopefully this chapter lives up to expectations! again if you'd like to let me know what you think i'd absolutely love it so much! have great days/nights guys <3

Erebor is- was- quiet and still. It had the feel of a dying man, clinging desperately on to life in the vain hopes that he would see his children prosper one last time. Sigrid found it claustrophobic and dark, dampness leeching in to fill empty spaces. Dragon rot and mould covered vast plains and the decomposition of the thousands of bodies that still littered the floors and rooms and gardens of Erebor covered the rest. Even now, three years on, they still found bones and mummified corpses in all sorts of places. Not two weeks past they had opened a storage chamber and found a family of five in there, all wasted away to naught. When Sigrid had gone to tell the news to Dis and Fili, she had very carefully avoided mentioning the fact that the three children were just bones and displayed signs of skinning. Fili was not yet well enough to hear such things, and Dis had never been the same since her husband had passed.

In truth, Sigrid was not really sure what she was doing in Erebor’s halls. She was not a dwarf, nor a dwarf-friend. She had come after her leg was hurt, hoping to help heal the wounded and forget what she had lost. And then, she had found herself not wanting to leave. She had spent her childhood soothing both physical and mental wounds, why should she not do the same for the dwarves? She had stayed, and at some point she had been given her own rooms, and after that they gave her a job and an allowance and she took her meals in the strained and silent royal dining halls.  And she had stayed, giving them her loyalty and her time. She liked the work- restoration of the library, working together with Balin and Ori, re-writing ruined tomes and ancient letters. She had always loved the allure of history, relics from people who were long bones and dust. Sigrid also liked the perks of the job- she got to spend time with the royal family, especially… well, it didn’t bear thinking of, not until he was healed.

Sigrid worried about Him constantly. She worried that His wounds were still not healed and that He was not receiving proper treatment. She worried that He was lonely now his brother was perpetually absent and that He was suffering for the lack of company. She worried that He would have lost too much muscle and weight, and she worried that He was suffering mentally and emotionally, and she worried that He worried about her too. Sigrid had always been a worrier, but the Battle had magnified it. She worried about everything, constantly. Loud noises? Orcs attempting a raid. Screaming? Brutal murder and assault and she’d be next. Somebody else cooks for her? Poisoned. In the back of her mind, she knew she was being silly, and that all of those things were highly improbable, but to the voice in the front they were very real, and very frightening. And that was how she had ended up taking refuge in Him, this battered broken girl. She had gone to Him in the night, while He flailed from a nightmare (one in a series of many) while she shook him in the fear that it was a seizure _and by the Valar he could die, what would I do if he died? Oh please don’t let him be dead they’ll think it’s me and I’ll be hung for it and then Tilda will become bitter and barren and stuck in a loveless marriage to somebody who adores her but she detests because I couldn’t guide her (not that I have done that of late anyway) and Bain will marry for love but it will be so ill matched because she'll be a commoner- a foreign one at that-they'll never find happiness together because people will stare and she'll die young it'll be a cycle mother and father all over again and father will drink himself to death oh god don’t die Fili no please  
_ And then he had woken, and looked at her tear stained pale face, and she’d thrown her arms around him and he had kissed her.

Sigrid had kissed many boys- and men- before, but it had never felt quite like this. She felt like lightning, like thunder and rain. She felt invincible, not like the crippled daughter of a king who did not want his throne. She felt like she could run and ride and dance again. Everything felt alright when she was with him. She was whole and most of all- she was safe.

So it was outside the doors of the Hall of the Kings that Sigrid waited, in the still and quiet halls of Erebor, hoping, _praying_ , that this would be him asking her to marry him. He had said such things to her- “when we are wed, my love,” and she had heard whispers, of course, of a royal engagement in the making, and Bain’s letters had carried words of her father locked into furious debates with dwarven diplomats over things neither he nor Tilda were allowed to hear.

This was it, Sigrid knew. She would marry him and be his wife, and they would have children- not three, there’s always an odd one out, four instead. They’d name their sons (they’d have three) after great heroes from her Da’s stories, and their daughter would be called Marta after her own mother. And her children would too marry for love, and everybody would be so very happy. The voice in her head would never spit its poisonous words again.

“Milady?” without Sigrid noticing, the door had creaked open, and a worried looking elf peered at her.

“Yes?” Sigrid’s voice showed her joy- she wanted the elf to know she was happy, so very, very happy that she would be with him for the rest of her days.  

The elf blinked at her in vauge elfish disbelief (although, knowing elves, it could have just been gas) “Would you like to step in to the halls?”

“Oh, of course.” Sigrid slipped her hand into the crook of his arm like she was supposed to and beamed at him. Happy, happy happy. They stepped (he glided, she limped) into the equally desolate Hall of Kings.

The halls were damningly quiet. That should have been her first clue. The dwarves looked slightly more pale and strained than usual. Bofur was sporting a bruise above his eye, and Dori and Nori looked absolutely livid. Between the three there was a notable absence- usually Tauriel sat in the middle, as head of the weaving guild. As Sigrid looked around, she noted that there were only half as many dwarves as there usually were- and most of them looked very cross indeed. Her stomach began to churn and hurt, and the compressing feeling in her heart made her want to scream out for air. Had she done something? Were her friends mad at her? Perhaps they had gathered her here to tell her how much they despised her, how laughable it was that she thought that she could work with them, let alone love one of them. Sigrid closed her eyes and took a very steady deep breath. She opened them again and bit her lip very hard.

“Sigrid,” said Dain Ironfoot, as he stood up and strode towards her. Sigrid was not quite sure what he was a lord of, but she knew he was very important to the dwarves. “My dear Sigrid. How are you today?”

“Very well thank you, ser. How are you?” Sigrid tried desperately to regain the happy feeling, _don’t let them see, Sigrid, it’s very nice to be here. You are happy._

“Never mind that, girl! Ah, what a happy day!” Dain was, she noticed, the only person smiling in the entire room.

“And why is that, ser?” Perhaps, she thought, he disliked her most of all.

“You haven’t told her, Bard? Mahal, I thought you’d have gone to her first!” Dain boomed.

Above them, she noticed, on the seats opposite Thorin and Dis- no Kili or Fili either- sat her father, looking strained and grey, and her brother. Bain’s face was red and he looked- although she could not be sure- as though he had been crying. Now he just looked angry. Bard had cringed at Dain’s words, and Sigrid was not sure why. “I had hoped,” he said slowly “to discuss this with her privately prior to an announcement.”

“An announcement of what? What’s going on?” Sigrid had begun to see black spots, and a headache had washed over her like she’d spent the last night drinking.

“We are here,” droned Thorin, in his terribly monotonous voice, looking at her with his pale eyes- evil eyes- and showing no emotion at all. “To announce my betrothal to the Princess Sigrid of Dale.”

And with those words, the black spots and headache and churning stomach and lack of air became quite too much for Sigrid. Her eyes fluttered back and she fell, collapsing onto the hard golden floor of the Hall. All that was said next- Bain’s uproar, shouting from the elves- was lost to her, as for that moment at least, Sigrid was lost to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigrid what r u doing
> 
> Also please tell me what you think by the panic attack narrative! it's based off my own experience with anxiety but it might not quite be what you agree with/ your own experience so let me know!
> 
> What did you think in general?? let me know!  
> ALSO: holy shit who is older: Bain or Sigrid?? I have checked 99 thousand sources and while people think it's Sigrid i just don't know?? I thought he was older but my friend thought they were twins?? what do you think??


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilda was ill two years ago. Who could have imagined that her kind heart could betray her so?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw this (http://www.redbubble.com/people/jaysa2uk/works/10060253-archery-sexy-compound-girl-on-arrow?grid_pos=14&p=t-shirt) today and i laughed so hard because it's exactly what modern!au angsty teen bain would have and he's get SO shredded by Sigrid and Tilda for it RIP Bain
> 
> ANYWAY kiddos this chapter is a little hard hitting so please ensure ur all in a good state of mind for it (if ur not thats ok you go and get yourself happy in a safe and positive way and then u come back to read this xx)

Only three years ago, the plague had come to Dale aloft the dragons wings. As Smaug had died (taking countless Lake Town residents with him) he had cast them out from their homes. The sick stayed sick, and as they were confined to tight quarters, it spread. And then the water was tainted by orc and dwarf and elf and man corpses, but they had little else to drink so they drank it anyway, and even more took ill. And then the meat became spoilt, but they had nothing else to eat, so they ate it anyway. And finally, the sewers had over flown into the already tainted water. The sick were gathered together in the old town hall, and many illnesses came to roost there. And, as some illnesses are wont to do, they mutated.

This new illness spread like melted butter. People- survivors and warriors alike- died in their hundreds, coughing and vomiting and bleeding to death. Pustules scarred the few that managed to survive.

Tilda had flown out of the house and down the cluttered lanes- packed with the dead and the dying- to the hall as soon as Bard and her siblings had turned away from her. It was not hard- Bard was distracted by his new role, Sigrid spent her time locked away in the dreary mountain and Bain spent his time moping and chasing skirts. She had nursed people back to life and sung to them as they died. She had watched mothers lose children, brothers lose sisters. She had held tight to a woman’s hand as she gave birth to her child in that terrible place and then held tight to that woman’s husbands hand as he had watched first his wife, then his three older children succumb to the plague. Tilda had watched people die and people live, through some strange mercy of a God’s whims. It was there, in the town hall, that Tilda had seen people she had known and loved her whole life choke to death on blood, or burn so hot their hearts could not cope.

And just like it was punishment for doubting the kindness of the Valar, for thinking so harshly of them for taking these lives, Tilda herself fell ill.

It had begun with a small lump in her throat. She had tried to tell herself it was just sadness from watching the deaths and sorrow of her people. Then came a small cough and a fever. Just a cold, she thought. It is winter now, of course. Finally, she had begun to burn- “like a funeral pyre” Greta Hardbottle had described it as, and Tilda finally understood the meaning- and vomit profusely, until she could no longer bring up bile- only blood.

Sigrid had been recalled from the mountain. A priest had come to read her the last rites, as befitted a Princess. People had crowded the streets and covered their house with flowers. Tilda had one vauge, horrible memory of her brother crying hysterically by her bedside, reaching out to touch her but pulling away. She had never seen her brother cry before. She knew her father had wept and pleaded with every god imaginable to let her live. Tilda did not know why the Valar had decided to let her live, but after almost a month of being ill, her fever broke. With it went the vomiting and the bleeding, the coughing and the pustules. Finally the lump in her throat subsided, and she woke.

As weak as a newborn lamb, Tilda had stumbled down the hallways into the battered chapel that her father had not bothered to rebuild. She staggered through shattered archways and over fallen brick until she found the alcove dedicated to Este and Irmo. There she had fallen to her knees and thanked them for hours on end for saving her life.

But it seemed they had not been so kind as Tilda had first believed. Little by little, the survivors of the plague had married, or returned to their marital beds. They had desired children, replacements of those they had lost. But these children had not come. They had called for inspections, so elvish healers had come. And they had all said the same thing: the plague did not rob you of life, it merely robbed you of the ability to create life.

There had been suicides and outcries. Bard had appeased them by reminding them they were fortunate to only have some of the population effected. Tilda was paraded about before the people, to remind them that Bard and his family had too suffered.

It was this that drove Tilda near mad. She had gone to help. She had survived the fall of Smaug and the burning of Laketown. She had survived her own birth, which had killed her mother and countless orcs. Why should everybody expect her to succumb to this? She had been robbed, true, but she would not falter or fall. Tilda had seen another path entirely in that month of clouded pain. Her desolation would be her creation.

 

***

And such were the circumstances that led Tilda to the building she stood in front of. Women streamed in and out, laughing gaily in a fashion that made Tilda yearn for something she’d not seen for a very long time. She took the stairs slowly, carefully. She did not want anybody to notice her.

The grand oak doors were wide open and she slipped through, joining a stream of others. Like a fish in a shoal, she followed.

They all gathered in the hall, shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the words that would change their lives.

“Ladies,” began a soft voice. “Aren’t you sick of having no say, no rights? Shouldn’t we change that?”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO CONFESSION: THIS CHAPTER WAS PRETTY MUCH WRITTEN FIRST BECAUSE LIKE  
> SIGRID HAS HAD TILDA AND BAIN (and prolly bard lets be real) TO MOTHER HER WHOLE LIFE AND BAIN AND TILDA HAVE GROWN UP WITH SOME INSTINCTIVE DESIRE TO HAVE 2828 KIDS EACH JUST IN CASE THEY DIE OR THEIR PARTNER DOES OR BOTH SO THOSE KIDS ALWAYS HAVE EACH OTHER
> 
> BUT WHAT IF ONE OF THEM CAN'T? THE IMPACT ON THEM FROM A YOUNG AGE WOULD BE MENTALLY DEVASTATING  
> and then i thought about it for a reallly long time.   
> And in Middle Earth a woman pretty much has not got a lot of value unless she's got sons (lbr here we have seven or eight ladies in lotr who actually do something and that's it) so what happens if you take that away from her? because like, Bain is a dude. He can be a knight, he's gonna be king- his fertility means jackshit. But Tilda isn't going to lie down and take that. She ain't letting nobody get in her way.
> 
> ANYWAY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK HAVE GREAT DAYS I LOVE U ALL 
> 
> Next Chapter: We return to Arrowtown. Bain is there. There's new characters. Here's where you get sick of my OC's and inevitably stop reading, crushing my soul and my heart. Alfrid is also there. Nobody likes him at all (where's the change)


	4. Bain, Bard and Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bain has a tantrum, Bard has a lady friend, and a trip to Erebor for wedding plans rapidly dissolves into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short and i am sorry. please comment and tell me what you think!!

It was dark and stormy, a sure sign of the winter ahead. Bain shivered under his cloak, layers of thick fur barely shielding him from the lashing rain. His horse was near soaked, and Bard fared little better. 

Erebor was a long distance from Dale, compared to Arrowtown, comparative with only the newly built Esgaroth in miles. They'd set off a day earlier, but already three men had turned back from their party because of the weather and lack of provisions. Bain frowned as he remembered his last great journey- from the smoking ruins of Lake Town along cliff faces and ancient ash to the crumbling towers of his birthright. Perhaps, he thought, in the spring he might embark on a journey from Dale to Rohan or Minas Tirth. Both King and Steward had been eager for letters from Bain after their tentative kingdom was reclaimed (undoubtedly due to unmarried daughters) and would surely be happy to sup him as he watched how to properly rule. Like a squirrel or something.   
"Da," he began, intent on broaching the subject with his father and distracting both of them from the cold and the hail. "I think I ought to learn how to be a King." His voice cracked sharply on learn, and Percy laughed softly behind him.   
"Do you think we've been playing games for the last three years, Bain?" Bard was laughing too, and Bain felt a rush of frustration.   
"By a real King. A born one." He said sharply, careful to avoid embarrassing himself again.   
Bard harrumphed. "To the elves, or to the dwarves?" Bard smiled, a rare treat in tense times. "Or to the hobbits? They could call you the King who Cooked."   
This time, it was Bain's turn to harrumph. Percy's laughter had gone from being hidden to outright.   
"Better that than Dragonsbow, ey?" He ribbed. Bard laughed, and Bain flushed. He hated the nickname, and everybody knew it. 

The shift between becoming Prince Bain, heir to Dale, Lord of Long Lake and Master of Coin (a position Percy had quickly had him installed in- his father and siblings were far too spendthrift, and Bain had spent his fragile childhood balancing books, filling the bare cupboards and paying off old loans) from humble and entirely auspicious beginnings as Bain the Bargeman's son, heir to dirt, lord and master of nothing and nobody was painfully confusing. He could no longer laugh and play football with the others his age, and he could no longer play the kissing game or woo whichever of his friends sisters was preferred this week. Instead, it was etiquette and behaviour lessons from Percy, sitting in on councils and avoiding the traps of marriage women who wouldn't have looked at him twice before kept hiding in his path. Bain wanted to explore and see the world, to take a ship and make the treacherous journey across the world to Westeros. He wanted to marry for love, and to fight in magnificent battles. He wanted to be sung about. The Prince was not so ambitious. He wanted to rule well and make his father proud, and he wanted to make his people glorious again. He wanted to rebuild the crumbling towers and knew he'd have to marry a woman who could bring a dowry big enough for him to do so. 

Bard clocked the downwards turn of Bain’s mouth, the rising flush across his face. “And by “real king,” who did you happen to have in mind?” He was suddenly serious, and with a subtle wave of his hand, Percy dropped back to ride alongside Woden, one of the younger men in Bard’s new court. Bain liked him well enough, but he was far too carefree to be anything like a friend.   
“I-” Bain swallowed hard. Prince of Dale. He could have a conversation. “I thought perhaps Gondor or Rohan. The elves, at a stretch, but that’d be a very different style of ruling. Even- Even Westeros?”   
Bard gave him a kindly look, more King than father. “I should think Westeros is too far, son. Rohan is too wild for you, and Gondor doesn’t have a King. You don’t need to learn the ways of Elvish-”  
“You don’t understand! I hate this. I feel so smothered in everything- it’s all too much for me, Da! I just want to see the world and learn about what life is like out there. Gondor’s steward is as good as a king, Rohan is only wild because of the horses- and I can ride! Westeros might be far but it is a wealth of knowledge and magic- they tamed their dragons, Da! Imagine if we could have just asked Smaug to stop! I want to explore and actually live and learn how to be a man, not some stupid puppet.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bain is fully aware that he is having a tantrum.   
“If it’s what you want, then so be it. I’ll write to the steward of Gondor in the morning.” Bard is curt, and Bain knows he’s gone too far.   
“Da-”  
“You are quite right, Bain. We have no connections, no allies- Only Erebor, and that is tenuous.”   
“Siggy will marry Fili and then that’ll be solidified-”  
“So I will send you out into the world to make your friends, and make potential matches for yourself and Tilda- that is, if any man will have her.” Bard sneers the last part to remind Bain just who brought the plague into their home.   
“Da, please just let me-”   
“I have been meaning to discuss this matter with you, but it is certainly no issue now, since we’re letting our feelings out in the open. I have had an offer of marriage from a Gondorian woman. I will escort you to Gondor, pick up my bride and return home. Tilda needs a mother.” With that final statement, he turned his horse and rode on past the rest of the crowd. Bain scowled and threw down his bow and quiver.   
“This is idiocy!” He yelled. “And Sigrid will side with me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short and I am sorry. Bard on Bardling anger bc in every fic they're all tight and Bard is chill with their shit no matter what, he needed to Dad.   
> Next chapter brings us Tilda and Sigrid doing cool sister stuff. Fighting the man and the patriarchy, while Bain descends into full 19 year old angst at a brothel in Arrowtown with his uncle. Bilbo rocks up 100% confused about child marriage. Gimli is introduced to the future love of his life, Mr. Axe.   
> to comprehend some of the interactions in the next chapter I suggest you read the other work in this series :) 
> 
> please comment and tell me what you think!!

**Author's Note:**

> Idk how this will be recieved or what ships will come of this- but tell me what you think! :)
> 
> ALSO: I thought it was shady af that Bard + his bbys survived the battle unharmed. As a result of this I've given them all injuries:
> 
> Bard: damaged nerves in leg due to infected cut and healing treatments- possible nerve spasms. He's also got burns (now scars) all across his chest and as they weren't healed properly they hurt- especially when it's cold  
> Sigrid: Sigrid's leg was crushed by a collapsing wall when they cleared things up after the battle. It wasn't removed, but it's got some pretty bad nerve damage and she needs a cane to get around. Mentally I'd say she's also not doing very well- but we'll check in on her soon.  
> Bain: Bain's got some really bad chest scars from when he nearly fell off the clocktower. He's also the least injured (mentally or physically) of the Bowman family, which means he's got a pretty bad case of survivors guilt. Again, mental health wise- not so good.  
> Tilda: Tilda ain't doing so hot either. She's got a heap of mental health issues- she's the LOTR equivalent of a child in Gaza, or a similar locale, as she's pretty much spent the last two years in a perpetual state of not knowing if she'll live or die. She's also the only Bardling to have contracted the plague, and she's suffering from the effects still (chap 3)


End file.
